


Taking Care

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Backstory, Established Relationship, Light BDSM, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23095534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: Aftercare. Not in the typical dominant-submissive way. Just John's innate care-taking role expressing itself after some enthusiastic, very consensual, activities. Ahem. Interspersed in the telling is a bit of the backstory as to how this came to be so important to our Dr. Watson.Exactly who is taking care of whom is kind of the point.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 67





	Taking Care

**Author's Note:**

> I kept looking for more detail, more emotion, more tenderness, in the relationship. Particularly afterwards. And when I couldn't find exactly what I was longing for, well ... I did what fanfic writers do: I opted to write it myself.

John looked on carefully, keeping his own breath near silent. Sherlock lay angled up on his hip, arms stretched upward, wrists together. Long fingers rested against the bedpost but they weren't holding it anymore. There was no need, even before, the canvas restraints were snug but no longer being pulled against, looking for leverage, no longer tense. Long eyelashes rested mostly closed, not quite entirely relaxed, flickering faintly with eye movement beneath. There was the faint excess moisture at the corner of the eye closest to the pillow, not quite enough to have squeezed out in the throes, more than could be blinked away.

Smiling fondly, John knew quite well not to startle at this point.

"Easy," he whispered, a caution prior to touch, then brought his index finger to Sherlock's jaw, slid toward the corner of Sherlock's outer canthus, trailing the moisture along, wiping it completely away. Not tears, not exactly, but more than simple perspiration. Therapeutic - a typical reaction. Neither of them used words like subspace or subdrop, but would have acknowledged that it was part of the response, the low that followed the high. John's hand lingered a moment on Sherlock's cheek, his temple. The tenderness was not only sweet, it was _perfect_. "It's okay."

In response, there was a soft nod, a shudder of breathing, a deeper inhale, a full exhale. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, blissed out, and a few blinks later, he locked his gaze on John's somber eyes. The exchange, non-verbal - _you okay? yes, are you? yes_ \- opened the door to what was to follow. Sherlock's eyes drifted closed again, the tension in his neck and shoulders giving way to entrusting himself fully to John's tenderness. His care.

Yes please. Go ahead, I'm ready.

More technically correct, _his aftercare._

Oh yes.

++

He pressed his lips to the closest thing he could reach, Sherlock's shoulder, the back of his upper arm, before leaving the bed. His steps were sure and confident despite the fact that he was still naked. And he would stay that way, at the very least until Sherlock was covered too. It assured that he was attuned to the need, sensitive to the temperature, the dynamic, and no more chilly (or overheated) than Sherlock. His own muscles trembled at the recent exertion, the recent exercise, the draining aerobic workout, the intensity and fulfillment of their ... session, as he moved to the thermostat, turned it up lest they chill as the sweat cooled and dried on their skin. As heart rates eased. As muscles previously strained were able to stretch, to recover. Fibers, fluids, electrolytes shifting - muscle repair and protein stores working their behind the scenes magic, homeostasis.

He wouldn't rush. Savouring each part, of the earlier piece of the evening already, the release, the connection, was only beginning. It suited him, more than just another way to feel close. To share something that no one else did, nor ever had, nor ever would.

It hadn't been easy, or comfortable, or smooth the first few times they'd dabbled in this sort of activity. But both of them pushed past it, to acknowledge if not in words in action that whatever they found acceptable, comfortable, and fulfilling between the two of them was okay. And John had considered their previous times, where they were now, what he thought he might still like to do, and had something ... not exactly new, but novel for them for the evening yet ahead of them. They were, if nothing else, quite safe with each other. He trusted Sherlock to speak up if he didn't like something, or needed more time. He would certainly do the same.

And not rushing was key. He intended to not only savour, but immerse and enjoy.

_Trust me. I will take care of you._

In the soft lighting from a lamp in the corner of their bedroom, the room was lit from the side, warm and glowing. There was nothing harsh, and certainly nothing but tender smiles between them as John faced Sherlock, who still lay on his side, watching.

"You okay?"

One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched, the faint echo of beginnings of a smile, and he let that convey his answer, his affirmation.

++

The case had been a gradual build, a potentially exciting if not somewhat perilous, risky evening that had ultimately almost disintegrated, fallen short. Hours previously, Rosie had been dropped off at Molly's, and the girls were both looking forward to not only the evening but breakfast and a spa day tomorrow. The case solved, but without the fanfare and drama that Sherlock reveled in, without the satisfaction of complicated deductions, of showing off, and the attention, approval, and admiration of those present.

But solved, nonetheless, and good on that point.

"Sorry it wasn't ... " John began, letting his words trail off. In the back of the cab, they sat comfortably apart, the lights from the streets traversing the vehicle interior, moving the shadows, illuminating profiles, as they drew closer to home.

"It was disappointing." A brow arched. "Profoundly." His honeyed-tones dripped with a bit of a vocal edge, sharp, and his words were clipped.

John was reassuring. "But still solved." Sherlock had pursed his lips, annoyed now that it settled around them both, wishing it had been ... just ... _more_. "Amazing."

"Don't forget brilliant."

"And we still have the flat to ourselves." Their eyes met, held. "We can absolutely move forward. Make this evening quite ... special."

"It would have been better with --"

"Stop. I'll take care of it." John's voice lowered. "Of you." The cab had left them off, Sherlock paid only because John insisted that they alternate. Turns are turns, and fair is fair. "Starting now." Unspoken: _It's my turn, and you are to listen._

"I know. It's just ..."

"You need this?" Their coats were hung, the door locked, the flat hushed and waiting. "And want this?"

"Yes."

"Safeword?"

"Yes."

John frowned slightly. "I didn't mean, do you have one. I need you to speak it." More silence followed. "Out loud."

"It's not like that. It's not necessary."

"Of course it is." They'd had this discussion previously, and Sherlock, for all he enjoyed being pushed, still didn't see it clearly as something they needed. But John had insisted - demanded - and stubbornly was waiting again. _"Sherlock."_

"Avocado." The word was both petulant and brittle. It had been suggested as something of a ridiculous option back before it had even been terribly relevant, John's mind working for an example of a suitable word. Though it was something of a ridiculous option, it had just ... stuck.

Refusing to say thank you for something Sherlock should have done without the interminable although predictable fussing, John did smile fondly in response. He pressed his lips once more to Sherlock's, a peck, a tease, a promise. And then again, wanting a little longer, more connection. There was initial resistance, token residual fussing, then a moment later, his lips parted warmly, sweetly, and just as Sherlock was ready to deepen it, his mouth beginning to open, John withdrew abruptly. The loss was punctuated by a frustrated huff and an annoyed glare.

"None of that, now." Pressing back with his hands on Sherlock's ribs, John could feel the power dynamic, the energy between them. They both wanted this - Sherlock to let John take care of the encounter. In return, John would make him work, to make him earn it. To have complete and total control.

Trusting surrender. And gentle leadership.

"Bedroom then. You know what to do." The beginning was always the same except on the rare times John made a specific request otherwise. Strip. Hands and knees in the center of the bed, head down. John would wait only a few minutes before joining him, just enough time that the anticipation was heavenly, floating, and gave them both heightened awareness. Kept them focused. He would usually bring a bottle of water each, and join him quietly. There would most often only be a few words, getting down to business.

++

"Going to release these," John said, working the clips on the canvas restraints. For variety, sometimes John wouldn't even tie them; this time, he had bound them together, secured to one of the bedposts. He lowered Sherlock's wrists, taking care to move slowly, stretching out gently those muscles that had been restrained. He placed his warm palm over the meat of Sherlock's bicep toward his shoulder, letting the warmth be soothing, the heat of his hand gentle as he guided the movement. Another clip released, and the canvas strap fell away from Sherlock's skin, right extremity first, then left. John brushed his thumbs over the grooves left behind, smoothing the tightness, his pressure over the faint marks soft and tender. "You pulled here, quite a bit." A few moments of massage and the ridges were just beginning to smooth out, to ease.

"Because you like that," Sherlock said quietly, his eyes watching the ministrations of John's hand, of his caress, of the restoration to normalcy.

A flicker of John's brow - _yes, I do_ \- was followed by a smile, although brief. _And so do you_ , he didn't need to say. One arm, he captured in his hands, moving it up, range of motion, raising, a faint circle, an intentional slow arch to restore normal shoulder movement, and then he let it rest on the bed. Firmly, he pushed at Sherlock's collarbone, his upper chest area until he was laying more flat, then repeated the sweeping movement with the other shoulder. There was a transient flicker of a mild grimace on Sherlock's face - not pain as such, but stiffness leaving him - as his arm regained movement and sensation, the colour of the extremity returning to normal, pale pink. John saw everything with his usual astute observation, from the facial expression to the very mild discomfort as his body grew accustomed once more to his normal, aligned position. There was a shifting, a pressing, Sherlock scooching about on his elbow as he tried to get more comfortable. "Easy," John breathed, seeing what wasn't quite right - the angle, the pillow, the wrinkle of bed linens beneath him - and made some adjustments. "I've got it."

For another few minutes, he held Sherlock's wrists in turn between his hands, rubbing, smoothing, holding. His warm fingers and motions very quickly made the ridges less noticeable, less prominent, as they resolved. As he worked, he took note of the relaxed posture, the shoulder angles, the way his position against the pillow eased, settled. Long fingers relaxed too, in his grip, as he rubbed, stroked, and touched.

++

John sighed as he signed his name to the death certificate. Although death was never the desired outcome, some deaths were merciful, a blessing, an end to suffering; this was one of those, and the ending had been comfortable, swift, a painless release. He had already notified the family, advised them of the unfortunate turn of events and assured the patient's daughter that in the final moments, the family matriarch had not suffered. The daughter, a few tight words later, stifling tears, had thanked him for his care, for the notification, and John frowned a bit as he stood up, still acutely aware of the sting of loss, of finality, of ... medical failure, no matter how he looked at it. The daughter had informed him that they would be coming to the hospital shortly to collect her belongings, say their final goodbyes.

He'd tucked his head inside the doorway of the patient's room to update the nurse, but as he did, every word that he'd planned on uttering had wafted out his window of good intentions with the scene that greeted him.

The nurse must have been deep in thought, standing at the bedside rendering post-mortem care. Post-mortem care is the preparing of the body to be taken to the morgue, and includes removing lines or other medical devices, bathing, and usually wrapping of the hands and ankles together, supporting the body's jaw to keep it aligned. The final washing was respectful and somewhat sentimental. The nurse had the patient's hand in her gloved ones, and there was a small, wistful, somewhat bittersweet look on her face and her eyes were full and wet, though no tears were coalescing. Not quite sad, definitely not a smile. Introspective and ... raw. Which John did get a glimpse of before the surprise on the nurse's face took over.

"Oh, sorry, Dr. Watson." The nurse blushed. "I was ... just ..."

John sensed ... a _moment_ , the charged atmospheric sensation that he'd truly interrupted something. Something important, something special, he wasn't sure, and as such, he stepped inside the room, closed the curtain behind him to give them a brief moment of privacy.

"Are you all right?"

The nurse, a seasoned, compassionate worker, one of whom John knew by sight as well as by name, gave a careful, hollow, short chuckle followed by a more genuine smile as her face relaxed. "I'm fine. Just thinking," and with that, her hands moved one of the cloths over the patient's wrist, thumbs, and along each finger before laying it down on the bed again. She turned to the other one, gave John a calculated look to see how interested he was, or even whether he was still listening. "Thinking about these hands, is all. Did you know she had nine children, but gave birth to eleven?" John approached, closer, to stand near the bed, watching the nurse but seeing the whole scene there at the bedside. "Husband died a few years back. They have over twenty grandchildren. Just thinking about all these hands have done in their lifetime is all." She was washing the left hand gently, reverently, and laid it back down then raised her brow to look at it. "That ring's certainly not coming off." John looked where she was indicating to see a thin-worn diamond solitaire and plain gold band next to it.

"No, I'd imagine not." John agreed with her, then added in a low, unrushed tone, "Nor should it." Eye contact was exchanged, one of quietness, of appreciation.

Her smile in return was grateful, that he understood and that he agreed with her. The moment was a settling, a debriefing, a shared reflection that they were okay and that this was one of the things every healthcare provider learned to navigate. "Did you need something?" She understood that he'd come to the room with more than a social visit in mind.

"Family's coming in, is all." The kind gestures of the nurse was not lost on him, and he appreciated her compassion, her tenderness. "Wanted to let you know."

"Okay. Good." She adjusted the patient gown then, straightening it, her manner conveying her appreciation for John's presence, his unrushed words. "Thanks for your help, earlier." They'd been in contact, an update about the deterioration, a request for medication in case the patient's respiratory status became more laboured, to ensure that there would be no struggling, and then later, the phone call noting no breathing, no pulse along with the request for him to come pronounce the patient. She smiled again, shrugged, tucking the sheet up along the patient and laying her still, pale-white hands together, reverently, neatly, across the stomach. "Hands tell quite a story, don't they?"

"That they do," John said, then, moving a few steps toward the door, he hesitated. "You did a nice job today."

Another smile was exchanged, a murmur of thanks, and John found that her words, her attitude, her reflections about hands in general, stayed with him that day. And quite a bit longer.

++

Sherlock's hands twitched a bit under John's attention, the long fingers relaxing, calm, and still. They told quite a story, too. 

They'd pulled a trigger at Appledore. They'd pushed the plunger on a syringe long ago.

They'd dialed a mobile, held it, a rooftop conversation. They'd tossed the mobile aside, connections severed.

But good things, many good associations too, and John looked on, studying what he now held within his much-different hands.

Well-cared for, nails kept short and purposefully smooth, clean, capable. There had been the tiny, healed scarring from a childhood injury perhaps, the calluses on his left fingertips from violin strings, the small indent of the way his fingernail of his pinkie finger grew. These hands, too, had held their share of items, of books, of various and sundry pieces of equipment. More recently, had held John's hands in the sitting room. They'd snuggled Rosie when she was upset. They'd carried Mrs. Hudson's biscuits from the tin to his mouth. Those delightful fingers, a pleasure to watch, a dance of grace and supple movement, could work straining buttons, microscope knobs, send mobile texts, and oh, so much more.

Those talented fingers, long, slender, confident ... Had it been something John was prone to, susceptible to, he might have blushed at the intimate way Sherlock's fingers could press inside _just so_ , long and slim and with just the perfect amount of niggling pressure. He knew exactly when to back off, when to press again, when to adjust, and reduce him to ... well.

Tonight, though, they'd gripped the headboard and the strap of the restraint.

John rubbed over the palms, pressing lightly into the fleshy vee between thumb and index finger, gently. In this setting, he knew to use varying degrees of pressure, considered that he had very close, in the nightstand, some massage oil, chose not to get it, did not want to interrupt the continual sensations, the tactile stimulation, the attention. Their hands, together, were warm, connected, more than just two skin-covered body parts that touched. It was respect, and commitment. Sherlock's hands - light, refined, graceful - deserved a few moments of care.

Reverent.

Satisfied, he took a moment to glance at Sherlock's face again from where he sat on the mattress, angled on a hip that barely was touching Sherlock near the waist. Bright eyes watched him, waiting, patient, steady. It was for that reason, he knew and was reminded, that neither of them particularly enjoyed a long session with a blindfold. As much as Sherlock liked to watch, John needed to see that all was well, given the barometer of Sherlock's well-being was most often visible in his expression. At times, as John was getting ready to do again, he would ask him to close his eyes, or more rarely to place a strip of fabric lightly over them. But so much was communicated that way, through their gazes, that he was loathe to do it often. When he did, it was short, for a specific purpose, designed to heighten that connection. They oft communicated with a look, a set of the eyes, rather than words aloud.

"Easy," John said again, getting up after placing Sherlock's hands in a neutral pose, resting lightly at his sides. "Close these," he breathed softly, letting his fingertips brush carefully down Sherlock's forehead across his eyelids. He didn't rush to what he'd planned next, simply stood, appreciating the posture, the compliance, the obedience. "Deep breaths." He cued him through a few, directing at times, slower, steady, hold that, now blow out. "Again, slower," he directed and moved to his closet to get something. It had been an intentional orchestration, location, timing, and distraction, keeping something mostly a secret in the back and bottom of his closet.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still closed, trying to follow John's instructions. He turned his head, listening, and John could see how quickly his eyes were moving behind the closed lids, as if that would help.

"Patience." He spoke quietly, a guided non-answer. "In good time." He settled himself, not rushing, his voice and cadence, slow. "Deep breath." John returned to his side, the item in his arms. "Eyes closed." His words were slow, deep, and quiet. "Just feel."

++

"Hold that, just like ... yes, that's it." John had thrust a few times, his clothed body against Sherlock's bum, spreading his knees so that a bit of effort would be required to hold the position, particularly with his arms stretched out in front of him supporting his upper body weight. He reached around with a hand, sliding from Sherlock's waist to tweak at a tightened nipple before reaching down, sliding warmly, firmly down the streak of hair, the soft rounding at his naval, lower, gripping, encircling.

Softly, from the depths of his throat, Sherlock let out a discontented moan, a request for more, a compliment.

"I know." John had bent down, his lips opening, his mouth wide so that he could press into the curve of Sherlock's waist, sucking firmly, enough to leave a transient mark. He could feel both in his face and in the arm that held Sherlock in place, the quiver and shake of Sherlock's muscles working, holding, spending their energy, holding himself up. The burn would intensify as John drew it out carefully, never too long, just perfectly _long enough_ to draw out, extend, the release that lay ahead made all the more fulfilling, more sensitive, working hard to achieve it. "Tell me."

"Please." Sherlock's word was breathy and immediate.

"Please what?" 

In response, Sherlock hung his head, shaking it minutely side to side, struggling, resisting, fighting against himself.

"So that's how it's going to be?" Although John might have fussed, secretly - not so secretly - he was chuffed at the way Sherlock could hold out, could tease, could immerse himself in a role that John adored. "You need me to take away your choices?" With strong fingers, John grasped at Sherlock's hips, his pelvis, sliding him back toward the foot of the bed even further, drawing out his arms further and broadening the angles of his knees. There was another tremor, a quiver of Sherlock's back muscles, his sides, that now were holding up a bit more weight. He watched, seeing the degree of quivering, the effort expended, and knew it wouldn't be much longer before he would move him again. Although he knew Sherlock wanted to be taken to the extremes of his reserve, of his ability, John would never overdo it. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want."

"I want you to say it."

"I can't ..." he breathed, rocking his body just enough to take the strain off his arms.

John moved himself, coming along beside the trembling man. He let his mouth press lightly into the back of Sherlock's arm, breathing with a warm huff as he moved to lick at Sherlock's already pebbled nipple. He let his open mouth shift to the pale waist, in toward the furred abdominal musculature, his mouth open and his own body stretching to tease, to suckle, to glide a few times before moving away. The layer of clothing, John's only, against Sherlock's skin added a dynamic, a separation, a teasing that made them both quite aware of their different positions. But it was time, John knew, to up the ante, to change the situation, and he quietly removed his clothing, set it aside and off the bed. He drew up alongside Sherlock, his skin faintly warmer than Sherlock's as he moved. "This is very nice," John admired, keeping his tone low as he let his hand come along Sherlock's ribs, his back, to support his pelvis as he took most of Sherlock's weight, supporting the lean mass of Sherlock's form, shifting him carefully down so that he was laying on his side, arms still extended upward.

Sherlock emitted a faint groan as he exhaled fully and sank appreciatively into the pillow, the mattress, tipping back to press against John's warm skin. "I think it's time," John breathed into the back of his neck and he flattened himself against Sherlock's ribs, their chests touching. With one hand he moved to raise Sherlock's leg upward, granting him access. Another press of his pelvis, a rolling shift, and there was another sound of pleasure followed by the tightening of both arms as he tried to lever his body upward. "Enough. But I think you've worked hard, this has been wonderful. And it's time." The drawer made almost no sound as John reached for the trusty bottle of lube. "Don't you?"

"God yes."

"Okay, then: tell me what you want."

"Shut up and ..." He shook his the tiniest bit, at himself, at his reticence.

“Come on,” John breathed, encouraging him, softly whispered.

His voice lowered to a more hoarse, more base whisper, a plea, a humbled tone "... _fuck me already._ " For some reason, Sherlock didn't usually ever swear, and both hated doing it even as he got off on it. Or would, shortly. A faint tinge of colour infused his cheeks, his cheekbones tinted and even more angular than usual.

"See, was that so difficult?" John's words were fond and affirming as he opened, drizzled, applied, and set the bottle aside. "We deserve this, the feeling good, you and I." His hand, warm and slick, reached to himself first and then up against Sherlock's body, his fingers paying careful attention, his touch unhurried and thorough. "You ready?"

There was no response and John stayed completely still, waiting. Shadows and light lingered and prickled over Sherlock's face, where his jaw muscle clenched, his brow furrowed again just slightly. But there was no nod, no words uttered.

Throbbing and anxious, John might have smirked, but the motion would have been wasted where Sherlock couldn't see him anyway. He dug his toes in, shifting again, and let a hand steal up into the back of Sherlock's hair. He tightened his fingers just barely enough to be firm. "I believe I asked you a question."

This time, John could see the faint smirk, the pleasure, the satisfaction just begin to play around the set of Sherlock's mouth.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock remained mute, and John couldn't stop the rumble of playful disapproval deep in his chest - _two can definitely play this game_ \- and he tightened his grip more, easing Sherlock's head involuntarily back just a little, causing an arch to his back and the thrusting out of his neck angle, his chest. An audible inhale, and John twitched his hand just once as a reminder, a nudge.

"Yes."

John pressed in, gliding, slowly, feeling the heat envelop him as Sherlock's back arched again, his body responding almost by rote.

++

A sidelong glance confirmed Sherlock was still resting on his back, comfortable, wrists free, relaxed, eyes closed. From the closet where he'd stashed it, John withdrew what he'd placed there, held it close to him, and in a few steps he was standing near Sherlock's knees. He opened the weighted blanket, spreading it fleece side down. He let it touch the bed below where Sherlock's feet were, holding it not too easily in his hand. To draw out the sensations, he let it first touch down just past Sherlock's ankles, watching his reactions carefully. First he noticed that Sherlock wriggled his feet, just a little, puzzling at the sensation, the unexpectedness of the weight, the grounding and centering it elicited. John studied his face, wondering if he would again need to be reminded to keep his eyes closed.

He did not.

Sherlock smiled a bit, the frown between his eyebrows flickering like a beacon. Off. On. Off. On. Waiting until Sherlock's exhale seemed a little more full, John could see the very moment that he figured it out and was ready for more, and let the blanket roll gradually down onto Sherlock's legs, slowly, a sensual pace, settling over shins, knees, stopping at mid-thigh. He folded the blanket then, letting it be doubled over areas already covered, while he used a nearby towel to quickly wipe off body fluids that were already growing sticky. Once he knew the blanket would be safe, he moved it again, slowly, taking his time, until it was up and over Sherlock's waist, covering his hands where they rested.

"How's that feel?" The question was careful, slowly breathed, not sharp. Other than the faint wriggling Sherlock's feet had done at the first touch of the blanket, he hadn't moved, trusting John and following the expected obedience, the waiting for instructions. "Here," John added, tucking a fold of the fabric into Sherlock's palm, one then the other. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock's fingers clenched, touching, searching, as he explored what John had given him. What John had allowed him.

"Heavy." In kind, Sherlock's response was slow, too. "Unexpected." A small smile. "Well done."

"You like it." John simply observed. "I thought you might."

"It's ... nice. Very relaxing." His hand explored the texture, the nap, the surprising weight for very little bulk. "What colour is it?"

"Charcoal grey," John offered. "It suits you. I like it." With those words spoken, he slowly raised the blanket to Sherlock's neck, let it rest against him and get used to the sensation, the way it clung to him and hugged him close.

In a few moments, having watched Sherlock breathe, settle, rest, John reached for the water bottle, tucked a straw into it. "Here, a few swallows of water." He let a finger slide along Sherlock's face near his mouth, cuing. "You can open for the straw," he whispered as Sherlock took a few long pulls at the water. "I'll be fetching something from the kitchen. While I'm gone, deep breaths. In for the slow count of two, exhale for three. Try to keep your eyes closed." He offered the straw again, and there was another pull. "Good, just relax. Deep breaths."

++

Text messages from long ago, an errant memory, sent between men much younger.

**Mike. Something you failed to tell me about this flatmate situation?**

**What do you mean? MS**

**Seems he should have come with a warning label. JW**

**Hey, I'm actually out with my wife, can step out if you need ...? MS**

**No, I guess not. Bizarre things in the refrigerator. Assorted weapons in the flat. JW**

**And he just deserted me across town. Bit ... dodgy? But no, don't interrupt your dinner. Whatever, it's fine. JW**

**He's all right. Genius comes with its quirks I guess. MS**

**You're not kidding. JW**

**He's worth it. Hey touch base next week? Until then, deep breath, mate. It'll be fine. MS**

John pocketed his mobile, checking the kerb again, down the street, and turned his steps away from Donovan, where her warning about Sherlock and a body and kerb, still echoed in his head, the ominous prediction about the future. He tucked hands deep in his pockets, his collar already up against the chill, and he regained his bearings to location, knowing the general direction of Baker Street.

Deep breath indeed.

++

Sherlock listened intently as John's footsteps, soft on the carpet and then muffled in the hallway, faded from his hearing. He opened both eyes though he didn't move. The litany John had explained, the counted inhale the slower exhale, were already in progress. Under the weight of the blanket - _well done, John, for so many reasons_ \- he was hyper-aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the way the fabric brushed and tickled over his ribs that displaced the weight.

It was heavy, grounding, solid. It was security and the faintest little bit of restraint, of caution, of settling. Although he could have sat up immediately, tossed the heavy coverlet aside, he was not. He was choosing to let the weight anchor him, to submit, to allow himself to be led.

It was not easy, although John nearly made it so.

That is precisely how much he trusted John Watson. Blogger, friend, partner, co-conspirator. Flatmate, bedmate.

John will take care of me. I am choosing to let John take care of me. John needs to take care of me. Letting John take care of me is another means whereby I take care of John.

Indeed.

Footsteps were returning; Sherlock's eyes drifted closed. He followed the sensory input, the stimulation, acutely aware of his arm position, the proprioception of his legs. It was _lovely._

++

He tugged at the olive drab tee shirt, worn and faded as he left the unit hospital, sand crunching under his boots. The shirt was soft from use and laundering, but it still annoyed him and he considered ripping it the hell off his body. John knew it wasn't helpful, knew it wouldn't necessarily help the coiling of ... energy, of rage, of ... unstoppable emotion in him, and slammed the door to his barracks behind him. Flopping onto his narrow canvas cot, he shut his eyes, let his arm fall across his eyes.

"What's your problem?" A bunkmate, Ted one of the more senior CRNAs, glared but John didn't answer. They'd known each other long enough, worked together long enough, that mincing words was a pointless waste of time. It was more direct than hostile.

An OR tech arrived next, opened the still somewhat vibrating door, muttering. "I am so done with this. Bloody war, bloody enemy, bloody ... bloody _everything_." John's eyes remained closed as the tech added, "Lost all five of those brought in. All five." There was more fussing, a footlocker opening, a muttered curse - "Fuck this shit!" - the sound of rooting. "I'm hitting the showers," was the last thing he said before leaving again.

"Some days suck," Ted said, his voice a little kinder, knowing the explanation and sympathising. Some days it was more awful than others. Marginally. "I'm going for a run." There was a little more rustling, and something hit John in the chest. Fabric, clothing, soft. John thought he wouldn't have cared if it had been a grenade. "You're going with me."

"No, actually I'm not." John let out a half-snicker of disbelief, and when Ted didn't back down, didn't appear that he was going to either, John had another phrase for him. "Fuck you."

Ted chuckled then, a somewhat harsh sound. "Yes you are." He swatted at John's calf and earned another curse as a reward.

"No I'm not." Rapidly, John was subjected to some quick movements, that for some reason Ted decided that yes indeed, extreme measures were warranted and John was definitely going running with him. A burst of energy, a bending, Ted's shoulders flexing, arms grabbing and jerking. The cot was upended, John unseated onto the hard floor with a short burst of incensed profanity, and Ted grabbed at John's shirt. 

"Just suit up." Both men, breathing hard, a tense decision of 'I could beat the crap out of you' and a 'I'm not letting you win' being battled, wordless. Suddenly it seemed not the worst idea, a sweaty, exhausting, anger-releasing way to get rid of the angst, the horror, the absolute nightmare of what they did, day in and day out. "You'll feel better. And I'll let you set the pace."

Leaning in, John snarled back, "You'll be lucky if _you_ can keep up with _me_."

++

The microwave dinged only long enough for John to press open the door, remove the pack. Folding everything into a waiting towel for insulation, he returned to the bedroom, where he dimmed all but one small up-light in the corner. The room was warm, as intended, and he slid on a pair of pants before coming to where Sherlock lay quietly under the weighted blanket, eyes mostly closed.

"Feeling okay?" John smiled, tapped him on the leg, permission to look, and so Sherlock nodded. "I thought perhaps you'd like the weight, especially after working so hard. And I brought something else to try, something perhaps more for me but I think you'll like it well enough." From eyelids now wide open, Sherlock, curious, watched John place the bundle next to them on the bed. "These are ... well, actually, in hospitals they're called bath in a bag. It's a means to have a wash without getting into a shower or a tub." Sherlock's face changed, eyes crinkling just a little, disbelief, uncertainty, and the faint smile was automatic, impressed with another bit of John's unpredictability. "I'm not asking permission, exactly, but I'm asking you to trust me. And to speak up if ..."

In answer, Sherlock nodded again, let his eyes drift partially closed in consent, in acquiescence.

John shifted slightly, sitting on the edge of the bed, nudging at Sherlock's body to move him over a little. He opened the pack, removed one of the soft, fleecy cloths. Tucking the packs back inside the towel for insulation, he took Sherlock's arm into his own, holding it aloft so that it rested against his own arm, fingers up toward his own face, and he began to wipe. The cloth was cozy warm, tender, sliding over Sherlock's palm, fingers, wrist. Down the length of his arm, circling the elbow, his upper arm. The skin left behind had a faint sheen that quickly evaporated, clean, fresh, relaxed. He attended to the top of Sherlock's shoulder, over the bicep then finished with the first cloth gently in his axilla.

"I'm only going to uncover what I'm working on, so you don't get chilled." He shifted, taking the heavy blanket across Sherlock's chest, covering the arm he'd already done while exposing the other. It received the same careful, gentle treatment with the next cloth pulled from the packs, but before he rested the hand down, he brought it toward his mouth. The arm was relaxed, trusting, muscles supple, toned, but heavy in John's own grip. Pressing Sherlock's index finger toward his mouth, he bestowed on it a faint kiss, the briefest movement of his lips nuzzling, then returned it to the bed. Another few adjustments, and Sherlock was completely covered again.

For a moment, John watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, subconsciously counting it off, seeing that Sherlock was quite fully comfortable, resting, breathing easily. Movement from behind his eyelids let John know that he was very much still awake and alert, listening and feeling. Sliding toward the end of the bed, he uncovered a leg, removed another cloth, and washed the long, toned leg from thigh to foot and every area in between. He paused at the toes, long, the faint tracing of a few hairs, lightly, gently running the cloth in and between. There was a sharp inhale, a twitching of Sherlock's leg, a pulling away of his feet. He hissed, leg tense, and was prepared to sit up.

John looked up abruptly to find Sherlock glaring. "Ticklish. Stop it."

Immediately he made his touch strong, rubbing over the whole foot, making sure the sensation was full and over his entire arch, toes, and plantar aspect. "Sorry," he breathed, rubbing carefully, slowly, before setting that leg down. He covered it with the blanket, settling his palm over Sherlock's calf, waiting for his eyes to close again, for his body to relax. All of his movements were slow, deliberate, methodical. "I didn't realise, it's okay. That won't happen again."

Sherlock answered faintly with a nod of his head, exhaled, and after a few moments, some breathing and John's slow massage, John could see that he was more fully boneless again under the weighted blanket.

He slid the other leg out, folding the covers carefully out of the way, and began again at Sherlock's thigh, which trembled slightly as the new, warm cloth ran over, under, around. His knee received the same attention, and the touch was sure and firm behind the joint, and then he moved down to cleanse the ankle, foot, instep, and quickly but thoroughly, toes with a stronger touch. Another few swipes over Sherlock's heel and John returned the leg to the bed, covered it again.

"More water?"

"No thanks."

"Your back is next." John stood up just enough, briefly, so that he could tuck the blanket up, folding it along Sherlock's side and then gave him a faint nudge, turning him up on his side away from him, a log roll that still kept his front covered. "Good, just like that." He brought another cloth out and began at Sherlock's neck, swiping in a curve just under Sherlock's hairline, then across his shoulders, working slowly, thoroughly, carefully over his upper back. The scars were only barely noticeable any longer, light and pink, healed. He dipped the cloth in at Sherlock's waist, wrapping around best he could at his sides, covering everything he could reach. "Easy now," he said quietly, giving appropriate caution at the intimacy of what he was about to do, lowering the cloth to one toned buttock and then flipping it to do the other. He then folded it, saving the final wipe of the cloth for the crease before setting it aside again on top of the cloths he was already done with. "Turn back," he whispered, guiding him with a hand.

In the soft lighting, Sherlock's eyes were open, bright, watching his movements with a curiosity, an intensity.

John raised a brow, asking without speaking, _all right?_

In answer, Sherlock's eyebrow arched up, a twinkle, an agreement, a twitch of a smirk. _Yes of course._ He was waiting, simply allowing John to proceed. There were two cloths remaining, for Sherlock's front, which John exposed carefully to the waist, washing from shoulders, sternum, ribs, to wrap carefully along the dip, the mild swell of umbilicum and iliac crests. He drew the fleecy cover back up, then with the final cloth, washed Sherlock's lower abdomen, pelvis, pubic hair, shaft, bollocks, pressing lightly against his thighs, opening them, to gain access. He spent an extra moment wiping over Sherlock's outer hip over the faint fingertip marks, the indentations, from their recent encounter. They were not quite bruises, would fade rather quickly to flesh again. Their presence pleased him.

++

Not all of the marks he'd ever put on Sherlock's body pleased him. Not by a long shot. And although he was at peace with his actions now, that wasn't always the case; he'd spent long months wrestling with regret. There had been one evening a very long time ago, under cover of darkness in the night, after both were sated but neither sleepy enough to fall asleep. John's fingers had traced over the small, round, white, healed bullet scar. _Surgery_ , Sherlock had called it.

"I'm sorry for this, still, you know."

"This was not your fault."

"There were others that were, and I'm so very --"

A finger had pressed onto his lip. "Do not think for a moment that you have anything to feel remorseful about. We've come a long way since then." Sherlock had leaned in, pressed soft lips to his forehead, an atypical very uncharacteristic gesture of ... emotion, of sentiment. John kept quiet save for his loud swallowing, his breathing, his disagreement nearly palpable in the rigidity of his shoulders, his whole body.

"I wish I could undo it."

"Wishing is a futile waste of time." There was a faint huffing as John exhaled in frustration, in lingering self-flagellation. Sherlock's fingers tapped against John's temple. "I left scars on you too, you know." Without conscious effort, John's arms tightened comfortably, securely, fingers splayed and skin in close connection from shoulder to toes. Their skin, bodies, limbs, and breathing wove together. "And sometimes," Sherlock continued, his voice in a low, raspy register, "those invisible scars are just as bad, if not worse."

"I don't really see it that way, you know."

"And I don't give it a second thought either. You were provoked; I did it out of ... misguided efforts to keep you safe, I suppose."

"I know." John's finger had brushed over the scar, then the area over Sherlock's chest where the bruises had long since faded. His next words were a benediction, a finality, a somber hush. "I'm sorry."

This time, Sherlock did not immediately shush him or respond. Apparently he must've realised that John needed to express it, needed that and something more. "I know you are. I am too, John." 

John's nod was somewhat swallowed by his position, tucked over Sherlock's shoulder and under his chin, but he pulled back enough that their faces were close. "Never again."

Blink, blink. Sherlock nodded too. "Never again," he whispered back.

++

A quick trip into the loo, the disposable wipe pack discarded before it could get anything inappropriately wet, and John lowered the thermostat again and extinguished the lamp as he climbed into bed. There was just enough faint glow of the street lamp coming in from behind the drapery that he could see Sherlock's open eyes, watching him as he settled into bed, sliding the cover up to get into the bed next to him. The fleecy weighted blanket was plenty large enough, and John had actually not been under it yet, not like this. But before he could stop to savour it, he slid a hand up to Sherlock's stubbled jaw.

Sherlock's exhale, a puff of a breath, blew faintly against John's wrist.

"You ok?"

He was rewarded by a tentative smile, a crease of a frown followed by a soft and unsure smile, a few eye crinkles. "Yes."

"Water?" John offered, beginning to stretch as if he was planning on reaching it.

"I'm fine."

His eyes closed then, the breath out as the rest of his body relaxed into the mattress, together, their combined warmth both familiar and comforting. They usually took turns, who lay flat and which of them tucked over a shoulder or under a chin, limbs fussing slightly in their quest for comfortable lie positions, for real estate. This time, it was John who rolled toward Sherlock, aware of the presence of the unusual weight, the density of the bedlinen, his arm stealing across Sherlock's ribs, his knee tucked just barely over Sherlock's thigh. Idly, he let his thumb brush over a few straggly hairs, at the swell of his pectoral muscle, faintly over the nipple, in comfort, in possession as well as in belonging.

"That was very nice, surprisingly so."

"Mmm," was all John could come up with as he nuzzled in a bit closer, feeling that comfortable bit of languor sneak over them both before they fell asleep, intertwined, sated, intimate. Happy.

++

John and Rosie entered the building of the Met side by side, Rosie's schooling over and their rendezvous successful on the street corner by the school building. They'd come to meet Sherlock there, and Rosie had been known to work on some assignments or otherwise be entertaining (and entertained) by all of those who knew and loved her. At nine, she was sassy and bright - thanks in no small ways to her upbringing and influenced by her fathers.

A few eyes turned toward them as they entered, and immediately John could tell that something had gone on, that there had been some drama or event there that they had missed. Damage control, then. One of the officers looked at him with a faint amount of reproach, as if John could ever truly wrangle Sherlock into changed behaviour or into doing something he didn't want to.

Rosie chuckled along with him as there was a murmuring, too quiet and garbled to really understand, but the intent was obvious. Both Watsons headed toward Lestrade's office, where the door stood open, the sound of Greg's voice low and intense inside. John drew up short at the door, taking in the scene that greeted him.

"Thank goodness," Greg said, rising up on his toes with a grand gesture as he spied them both. "I would insist that you take him home immediately, but ..." He cast his eyes toward the floor, where Sherlock had obviously recently flung the contents of several file folders to the floor, the starburst of papers draping about, some folded, some upside down, none of them in anything resembling the stack they'd just been in. "Clean this up, Sherlock. And then you're done here for today."

"None of this would have been even remotely necess--"

Greg made a tchucking sound in his throat. "You should set a good example for Rosie, here."

"Point there, mate," John said softly, wondering what had prompted the reactive display that had wreaked havoc on Greg's office.

Turning abruptly, Sherlock glared, point blank range, at John.

"Hey," John said, calmly as he addressed the surly detective. "Clearly Rosie and I didn't do this. Greg, neither. So do the responsible thing and take care of your mess."

"Taking care is your domain. You do it."

A charged moment between them threatened to explode as they looked at each other, John cool and rational, Sherlock vibrating with irritation. "I don't think so."

Greg chuckled as he watched the confrontation, the way Sherlock was actively bristling, the way John's hackles rose. He tapped on Rosie's shoulder. "How about you and I go for a little walk or something."

She did not need to be asked twice and actually had enjoyed their encounters, the developing friendship over the years. She'd seen how they treated, needed, and respected both her father and the detective. "Maybe to that vending machine?"

"I suppose," Greg said with a peek at John, who shrugged in agreement. They left the room, with Greg commenting fondly, animatedly, on her latest choice of young adult backpack, something Harry Potter that sparkled and made noise if you pressed the right area of the wand. The door closed behind them.

"You know you shouldn't have --"

"They're just such idiots!" Sherlock all but collapsed into the chair, and then slunk deeper in it, ready to launch into more explanations of how they were indeed lucky to have him assisting them, although he wished for some real, challenging issues.

"You can get started here while you carry on, you know."

Sherlock startled a little at the timbre of John's voice, that low, don't mess with me version that he pulled out from time to time. For a moment, their eye contact held, John's gaze with one brow elevated in austerity. Sherlock sighed. "You could help me."

"I am helping you." His voice dripped with emotion mixed with a little bit of raspy charm. "And then later, apparently Rosie has a dinner and sleepover all planned with a couple of friends, and we'll have the flat to ourselves." With another huff, Sherlock glanced at the floor again, the papers, the empty files that stood in his way. "Looks like this might not have been the best of available choices."

"As I said, you could help me. It would go faster." Tipping forward to a knee, Sherlock did begin gathering the files, shuffling the papers inside.

"And where's the life lesson in that?" John stood his ground for a few long seconds but then chuckled to himself and joined in on restacking the file contents. "So I take it you're all right if Rosie keeps her plans? I mean, I could tell her no and keep her in tonight."

"Why on earth --" Sherlock began quickly and then realised John was teasing him and that he had failed to pick up on it. "Cretin. You're as interested as I am and you know it."

"Yes. So the sooner we take care of things here, you get this sorted, the sooner we can get home, get Rosie squared away." John finished a large stack of papers, set them down on Greg's desk. A few minutes later, the files were all stacked and Greg and Rosie returned. A round of goodbyes ensued, and they parted ways.

It wasn't until they were out of the building and half a block toward the tube station that Sherlock muttered to John, "Ignore that."

"Ignore what?" John asked and then his mobile alert chimed.

"Nothing," he nodded with a sneaky grin. "But apparently Greg seems to think that I should have actually _sorted_ those papers."

John removed his mobile from his pocket. "Yup, Lestrade." Rosie was watching him as she nibbled on the sweets she'd procured from the machine. "I guess we'll take care of that tomorrow."

All three of them exchanged faint grins, conspirators, the lot of them. And they wouldn't have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope this piece finds you in a good, safe place.
> 
> Remember our fellow healthcare providers in this unsettling time.
> 
> The ending is likely to be revised, but I'm headed into a long stretch in the ICU in a few hours.
> 
> _Take care, of yourself and those in your life._
> 
> _Be safe._


End file.
